They're gathered in circles
the lamps light their faces
The crescent moon rocks in the sky
The poets of drumming
keep heartbeats suspended
The smoke swirls up and then it dies
Would you like my mask?
would you like my mirror?
cries the man in the shadowing hood
You can look at yourself
you can look at each other
or you can look at the face of your god
The stories are woven
and fortunes are told
The truth is measured by the weight of your gold
The magic lies scattered
on rugs on the ground
Faith is conjured in the night market's sound
1 Kommentar:
ich las einmal in einer sommernacht
"die stimmen von marrakesch" (elias canetti) vor...
still renember the lamp light in her face
*tja
wintermorgengruß aus münchen
frank
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